


Choices

by Alicethrutheburrows



Series: Fork in the road [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Horror, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Completed, Cop Dean, Ficlet, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Journalist Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Stalker Castiel (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 14:30:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20293003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alicethrutheburrows/pseuds/Alicethrutheburrows
Summary: Choices. An occurrence when a fork in the road appears in life.  Some take the road more traveled; some take the road less traveled, or if you are Castiel you take neither instead forging your own path. He had learned many years ago never to regret his choices. So, when Castiel awoke with his hands cuffed and chained to the ceiling in an apparent soundproof murder basement, he didn’t feel a shred of remorse.





	Choices

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This ficlet took me entirely too long to write but I enjoyed challenging myself to a different and tackling some smut for the first time. Disclaimer: this fic will not be for everyone, so please read the tags before proceeding. As I wrote this it came out a little...soft? Sigh, when I try and write angst it comes out soft and when I write fluff it comes out swing like a two-by-four with nine-inch nails. Sorry for the rambling. Anyways the most important thing is I left the ending opening. I would love to hear what you think happens next! So welcome down my rabbit hole, where the further you fall the darker it goes. Love, Alice.
> 
> Update: this work has been cleaned up and beta'd by the lovely callmekrowley

### 

Killing or Stalking?

Choices. An occurrence when a fork in the road appears in life. Some take the road more traveled; some take the road less traveled, or if you are Castiel you take neither instead forging your own path. He had learned many years ago never to regret his choices. So, when Castiel awoke with his hands cuffed and chained to the ceiling in an apparent soundproof murder basement, he didn’t feel a shred of remorse. 

_Earlier that morning_

“Charlie are you sure this is the place,” Castiel whispered into the cellphone trapped against ear and shoulder. Crouched down outside the property fence of Singer Salvage, peeking around the fence to stare at the rickety old house surrounded by crushed cars and miscellaneous car pieces doubt was beginning to set in. The house seemed to taunt him, daring him to come inside the longer he continued to stare. 

Charlie’s bouncy voice filtering through the phone recaptured Castiel’s attention. “Hello!” 

“I’m listening.” 

“You’re totally there, aren’t you?” 

“Charlie,” He lightly chastised. Their relationship worked because neither tended to ask questions, only the occasional favor. 

“Fine.” He could hear her eye-rolling through the phone. “It’s the right place, took some serious—and I mean serious—digging, but your boy inherited it after Singer passed away.” 

“That’s all I needed to know.” “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” She sing-songed, an obvious smile shining through in her tone. 

“Bye Charlie.” He hit the end button on the call, pocketing the cellphone while trying to take a calming breath. He peeked around the fence at the house again, the challenge too great for him to ignore. _ Now or never_, Castiel thought, swallowing his doubt. Wiping the dust from his white button-up, he stood from his crouch, pulling a pair of leather gloves from his back pocket and slipping them on as he drank in the sight of the rickety house up close. Front or back door? The decision gave him pause before he decided to walk around to the back of the house. Interesting. The back door wasn’t locked. A confident smile pulled at Castiel’s lips; today was working out more smoothly than he imagined. 

The back door led into a boring, overly normal kitchen with a basic oak table standing in the center accompanied by two chairs. The kitchen opened up to what appeared to be an office or possibly a living room of some sorts. Castiel wasn’t quite sure, but in the room each inch of wall was filled by overflowing bookshelves, an antique desk covered in loose papers pressed against the back wall, and a ratty old checkered green couch facing a stone-age television set rested under the room’s only windows. Checkered furniture, really? Besides the horrendous 1970’s couch the room was rather charming, although a tad messy with a dash of homey. He fingered the spines along the bookshelves. The shelves held a wide collection of everything it seemed:_ Vonnegut_, local folklore, less local lore, car manuals, and even the entire _Lord of The Ring_ series. Whoever Singer was, he was a well-read man indeed. 

He moved into the next room. It was empty besides a single red spray-painted circle in the middle of the room, a fireplace mantle on the far wall and the front door to the right. Odd, but given the couch in the other room, not surprising. He spied a set of stairs and a door next to the stairs to his left. Stairs or the door? Glancing between the two, Castiel quickly chose the stairs, tiptoeing his way up. The upstairs held two bedrooms and a full-sized bathroom. One of the bedrooms captured his attention more so than the other. 

The bedroom contained a hastily made queen bed pushed up under the window, a small trunk positioned at the foot of the bed, and a desk littered with pop culture figurines and comic books. None of those things unordinary or rather interesting. The compelling item enticing Castiel into the room was hanging in the closet. Plaid shirts in varying colors and patterns on display in the center, dark-washed jeans on the left, and two pressed police uniforms on the right. 

Although he couldn’t feel the fabric through his gloves, he gently caressed each shirt sleeve. Leaning in to smell one of the more well worn shirts, it smelt like musky fabric softener with faint whiffs of leather and oil; it smelt like perfection. It smelt like him. Castiel buried his nose in the sleeve breathing in deeply, trying to preserve the intoxicating smell into his memory. A satisfied sigh left his chest as he exhaled. If a shirt smelt this good, eyeing the bed he wondered if the sheets would smell better. 

He gingerly sat on the edge of the bed. Memory foam he noticed; surprisingly modern given the aesthetic of everything else in the house. His heart pitter-pattered in his chest as his hands roamed the sheets. The urge to crawl into the center demanded to be fulfilled. Who was Castiel to deny his urges? He shoved his face into the center before turning over, allowing himself to melt into memory foam. Excitement flooded his every fiber, blood rushing to his lower regions faster than his brain could process. His fingers trailed after the blood flow, creeping down his chest and swirling around his hips stopping just shy of their desired destination. He cursed silently wishing he had the amount of time he truly wanted, feeling his jeans tighten. Oh, this bed was going to be the star of numerous fantasies. 

A creaking noise sounded like a pen drop during a school exam in the silent house. It could just be the old house’s foundation settling but Castiel tended to err on the side of caution. Though brief, he knew it was time to leave. Fisting the sheets one last time, he slowly detached his body from the bed, missing its warmth instantly. Standing in the doorway, he scanned the room once more, committing each individual detail to mind. Tiptoeing back down the stairs quietly proved more challenging with the old wooden stairs whining and squeaking. He held his breath as he reached the final stair, waiting. The air seemed just as still as when he had entered. Shaking his head, he was allowing his paranoia to get the better of him. He stepped off the last stair, heading towards the back door which was more likely his better exit option. 

A low whine came from behind the door next to the stairs, freezing Castiel in his tracks. Only a few steps from the closed door where the sound was coming from, and a few steps from his safe exit, he was stuck in the middle debating. He should leave, but his curiosity began baiting him, nagging him, playing devil’s advocate, whispering all the possibilities as he stood rooted to the floorboards. He bit at his thumbnail; a nasty habit, he knew, yet couldn’t deny. His curiosity was remarkably stubborn and convincing. Taking a deep breath, mind made up, Castiel turned towards the closed door, radiating determination. Grasping the door handle, he simply needed to know. 

The door produced another set of stairs, only these ones led downwards with a single lightbulb swaying in the center providing minimal light. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, unsure if the thudding in his ears was his heart or his footsteps. It appeared the house contained a secret, one of many he assumed. A huge metal door reminiscent of an early bank vault loomed before him. Castiel tilted his head, examining the unusual choice of entry way in front of him; stepping forward to look closer, the only sensation his mind registered was blinding pain then the sweet nothingness of plunging into darkness. 

_Present_

Music? Castiel could make out some soft humming in time with familiar guitar notes. Groaning, his pounding head lolled from side to side as he tried lifting it to survey his surroundings. What had happened? Damn his curiosity, he was never this reckless. Berating himself was on the list after assessing the damage to his body. He could wiggle his toes, a good sign. Judging by his blurry vision he was probably suffering from a concussion. Based on his limited medical knowledge he knew he needed to stay awake. Castiel blinked, trying to shake off the grogginess, noticing then his wrists were cuffed, hands gloveless and strung up. Great, he thought. He wrapped his fingers around the links, pulling down hard seeing if they had any give, no luck; he sighed, knowing the rattling no doubt alerted whomever or whatever in the room to his awakening. 

In all times Castiel fantasized about meeting the Dean Winchester, including even the more fetishized ones, this distinct scenario—chained to a ceiling in a possible murder basement—never crossed his mind. Donning a long brown butchers’ apron over a thread-bare band t-shirt and a pair of dark-washed jeans, accompanied by the infamous Winchester smile, Dean looked frightening, powerful, and_tantalizing_. Touch, Castiel wanted so badly to touch. Touch his face, card his fingers through his spiky hair, run his hands along the planes of his body mapping every freckle, scar, and birthmark. He must have been hit harder than he thought, maybe he was dreaming in a coma or maybe this was heaven. For only in his dreams would Dean be this close in the flesh instead of through his lens. 

Twirling a three-inch talon shaped blade around his finger, flinging small drops of blood here and there, Dean stepped closer to him sporting a predatory smirk. His eyes assessed Castiel as he wiped fresh blood from the blade on his apron. 

“Morning, Sunshine.” His face was blank besides his smirk, voice smooth and even. “Care to explain why I found you snooping around here?” Pressing right into Castiel’s space almost chest to chest, twirling the knife in his peripheral vision, Dean waited for Castiel’s answer. Castiel should feel afraid, should be shitting himself silly, but instead all he could think was how disappointing it was his camera never captured the way the dusting of freckles across the bridge of Dean’s nose made the flecks of gold in his forest green eyes really pop. 

He licked his lips unconsciously, staring at those flecks of gold. “I’d rather not.” Dean narrowed his eyes, clearly agitated with Castiel’s lack of response. A silent moment passed between them, neither willing to break eye contact first. 

“I’m not buying your tough guy routine,” Dean said, holding the knife against his throat, pressing it lightly against his skin to show his seriousness “Tell me why or—“ Dean paused, glancing to his right. Following his line of sight, Castiel tried to process what his eyes were seeing. Blood pooled around the drain in the center of the room, flowing from a slumped, mangled body. Clarity, the more he stared the clearer the picture became, like taking a polaroid picture, black at first then bursting full of color. 

A smug, toothy smile replaced Dean’s smirk as he pressed the blade slightly harder, but not hard enough to break the skin to regain Castiel’s attention. “So?” 

He should have lied, or at least attempted to, but Castiel blamed his concussion for the words that came tumbling out. “I like you.” His confession must have caught Dean off guard by the half confused, half _what the fuck_ expression on his face. 

Dean furrowed his brows, lowering the knife from Castiel’s neck. “What?” 

The eye roll on his part was unintentional but unavoidable, for Castiel despised repeating himself. “I said, I like you.” 

Dean took a tiny step back, searching Castiel’s face for lies. When he found nothing but sincerity, a cackle erupted from his throat. Recovering from his outburst, Dean gave Castiel a pointed stare. “So let me get this straight, you broke in here because you like me?” 

“To be fair, you were supposed to be working a twelve-hour shift patrolling the west side today.” Castiel attempted a shrug. “House was supposed to be empty.” 

Dean’s face went blank processing what Castiel had said, obviously not knowing where to begin. “You knew I was a cop and you still broke in here.” Dean narrowed his eyes. “Are you stupid?” 

“It’s called celebrity stalking. I’m obsessed, not stupid.” Castiel sighed before deadpanning, “If I plan on doing anything else stupid though, I’ll let you know.” Already in this deep, he might as well tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. What could it hurt now? 

“Stalking? A stalker, you’re my stalker, I have a stalker, huh.” Mostly talking to himself, Dean began running a hand through his hair, once, twice, three times, before looking back at Castiel. “This is crazy, you’re crazy.” 

The verbal filter between his mouth and mind must have been broken from the blow to the head, for Castiel couldn’t help chiming in, “I call it character.” Glancing between Dean and the blood pool and back to Dean, Castiel quirked an eyebrow. “Don’t you think that’s like the kettle calling the pot black?” 

A smirk slid across Castiel’s face as his statement earned an honest chuckle from Dean, the sound music to his ears. 

“Okay,” Dean said, stepping all the way out of Castiel’s space, untying his apron and pulling it over his head, setting it and his blade on the workbench against the wall. Shoving his hands in his jeans’ pockets, Dean looked like the picture of confidence. “Okay, let’s say I believe you, which I don’t,” Dean inched closer, “And you are my stalker, and that this isn’t an elaborate ploy to not be chopped up into itty bitty pieces,” inching closer still, “What’s your name?” 

The answer came out automatically. “Castiel.” He swallowed. “Castiel Novak.” 

Dean hummed. “Cas-ti-el.” He rolled the name around in his mouth, sounding it out a few times before saying, “Yeah, I think I’m just gonna call you Cas.” A nickname? Castiel blinked, feeling the blush rising on his cheeks. Dean had given him a nickname—Cas. He rather liked the shortened version of his name, more so coming from Dean’s pouty pink lips. 

Cas must have been staring at Dean’s lip a little too long because Dean was waving his hand in front of his face. “Earth to Cas.” Dean snapped his fingers. Refocusing his attention, Cas noticed Dean’s eyes were inquisitive. 

“How did you know my patrol assignment?” Dean asked. 

“A journalist never reveals his source, detective.” 

“Is that what you do? You’re a journalist?” 

Cas shifted his weight, trying to relieve some of the pressure on his wrists. “Yes.” 

“We both know I could easily force you to tell me what I want to know,” Dean said, crossing his arms and widening his stance in a way Cas assumed was supposed to be threatening. 

“You could.” Cas licked his lips before saying, “But I might enjoy it,” finishing his sentence with a gummy smile. Amusement and disbelief flashed across Dean’s face. This being the second time Cas had caught him off his game, Dean ran a hand through his hair, scratching at the base of his neck. 

“What the hell is your deal, man?” Aggravation clear in his voice, Dean asked “Why the hell aren’t you scared shitless right now?” 

Cas let out a hollow laugh, the question being one he had already asked himself multiple times. He should be scared, but instead he felt like the Captain of a sinking ship—peaceful, accepting his fate while the chaos of the ocean swallowed everything whole. Cas flicked his eyes up at Dean, semi-gesturing with his cuffed hands. “Because all of this makes sense.” 

Being a good journalist consisted of two things: patience and the ability to read people. To be able to read a situation and get the subject to spill the whole truth. It often takes some finesse to extract information. Cas thought this was no different, he wanted to rattle Dean to see what shook loose. See the man hiding underneath all the false bravado, see the real Dean the man keeps under lock and key. 

“This, this all makes sense? How?” Dean huffed. 

“Do you want the answer to that question?” Castiel tilted his head as Dean answered with an annoyed grunt. “You won’t like what I’m going to say,” Castiel warned. When he was met with silence and a I’m-going-to-cut-out-your-liver-right-now-stare, he took it as permission to continue. 

“You vanish for days, the closest person to you is your brother, after work you tend to indulge yourself in alcohol, your apartment is devoid of any defining touches, you use your charms and looks to overcompensate, and you are never seen with same woman twice.” Castiel took in a sharp breath of air, about to continue, when Dean raised his hand for him to stop. 

“Stop. You think you know me,” Dean glared. 

“Oh, but I do,” Cas challenged, narrowing his eyes in return, “Your favorite pie is apple, you listen to nothing but classic rock, though you indulge in Bon Jovi on occasion, you love your car because it was given to you by your absentee father, and your mother died in a horrible fire when—” 

“Enough!” Dean snapped, cutting Cas off mid-sentence, seethin and grinding his teeth. “You don’t know anything about me, this”—Dean gestured to the forgotten body to his right—“This is who I am, a monster,” Dean said, heading to the back worktable to retrieve his knife. 

If there was ever a time Cas wished his mind-to-mouth filter worked, it was now. “No,” He spat. Dean whirled around, blade in hand, ready to strike like a spartan on the battlefield. 

“No.” His voice lowered this time. “You are not a monster, no one man is inherently good or evil. It’s balance, Dean.” 

“Balance? You call flaying the flesh off a human being balance?” 

“203,” Cas said, causing Dean to freeze and quirk an eyebrow. “You chose to join the police force, you chose to save 203 different lives, if this,” Cas jerked his head in the mangled body’s direction, “is the yin to your yang, then so be it, but you, Dean Winchester, are not a monster.” 

Dean let out a mirthless laugh while scrubbing a hand down his face, muttering curse words under his breath. He looked up, took a deep breath as if he was praying for strength, and then calmly leveled his stare at Castiel, gripping his knife tight. Cas knew he had played his whole hand and lost, if the deadness in Dean’s eyes meant anything. Might as well risk it, he thought, having nothing but his life to lose. 

“If you are going to kill me at least take your shirt off,” Cas said in a rush. 

“What is this, a Magic Mike moment?” 

Cas tilted his head and squinted his eyes, not knowing what game Dean was playing at. “I don’t understand that reference, but if you are about to put me down,you might as well let me die a happy man.” 

Dean's face flashed with mixed emotions. He began muttering again, softly this time, with Cas only being able to pick out a few words: weird, weirdest day, stalker, only happens to me, a fucking stalker, Jesus Christ. 

“You’re serious,” Dean finally said after his muttering. 

“Dead serious,” Cas deadpanned, trying to hide the beginnings of a smile. 

Dean’s mouth was agape attempting to form words. “Is that, was that—” 

Cas jiggled his wrists, trying to relieve some of the pressure from the cuffs while Dean appeared to be lost, mouth open and eyes wide. Dean carded his fingers through his hair, scratching at the base of his neck and taking a small moment to regain his composure. Cas tracked Dean’s eyes as they started at his feet and trailed slowly up to his eyes, green meeting blue. Cas watched as Dean took a step forward, the muscle in his forearm jumping from gripping the blade so tight. Another step. Another step. And another step, until Dean was hovering inside Cas’ space, almost chest to chest. 

A mischievous smile replaced any panic, disbelief, or shyness Dean had shown a few moments ago. Standing in front of Cas now was the real Dean—a true hunter. He licked his lips in admiration of the beast of prey in front of him. For the first time today, Dean caught Castiel off guard, surprising him when the first button on his shirt was popped by the tip of Dean’s blade. Button after button popped off, each one showing more and more skin. Leaning in closer with a toothy smile, Dean popped off the last button, exposing Cas’ bare chest and the small line of dark hairs that made up his happy trail. 

The cold air hitting his chest combined with Dean’s hot breath against his neck goosebumps erupting on Cas’ tan skin. He took a shuddering breath as Dean grabbed each side of the shirt, opening it as wide as possible given his position, his dick twitching with interest. Gulping, Cas wondered if it would be too much to hope for Dean to burn his body. Dying with his boxers stained with pre-cum seemed messy bordering on embarrassing. As the blade pressed into his chest, drawing blood, a breathy moan escaped his lips as his eyes fluttered shut, waiting. 

He willed his muscles to relax as he felt the blade removed from his burning skin as blood trickled down his chest. With his eyes still closed, he waited. Waited for his life to flash before his eyes, waited to be greeted by the gates of heaven or the fires of hell, waited to feel regret for his choices that led him here, but felt none. The sudden warmth of Dean’s hand on his waist ignited Castiel from the inside out, but surely Dean was just steadying himself, for his fingers were digging in hard enough to leave bruises. The warmth was a great distraction from his itchy wound. Breathing in and out shallowly, he waited. 

Whiffs of his favorite intoxicating scent filled his nose, followed by the wet, tingling feeling of plush lips against his pulse point leaving him dizzy. His head was completely swimming. Maybe he was already dead and managed to bypass all the pain, or he was still unconscious, and all this was some crazy vivid dream, but whatever the hell was happening, he never wanted it to end. 

Castiel’s entire body shivered, sending tingles all the way down to his toes. A heavier pressure resting on his shoulder replaced the pressure of lips. 

Opening his eyes, Dean’s forehead rested on his shoulder, jaw tight and eyes closed. 

“Dean?” Cas softly questioned. 

“How long,” Dean swallowed, “How long have you, um, been you know, stalking me?” 

Cas tilted his head up, feeling heat radiate from his cheeks down to his chest like how a single match leads to a forest fire. Sighing, he wished Dean would have stabbed him instead of answering this question. Proof, Cas thought. He had proof of how long and maybe it was time to show Dean his worst. 

Taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly, Cas said, “In my wallet, in the inside pocket behind the ID slot is the first photo I ever captured of you.” Dean nodded, backing away slowly with his head still hung low. He ambled to the table where he had stored Cas’ personal belongings, searching for a moment, then setting down his knife before picking up the worn leather bi fold. Dean examined it with mild curiosity before opening it and pulling out the folded picture. Cas anxiously watched Dean as he stared at the faded black and white of himself. The picture had been kept all these years as good luck, as a reminder of those few beautiful moments they shared so many years ago. 

“This is me from high school.” Dean rubbed small circles over the faded paper thoughtfully. “You’ve been stalking me almost a decade.” Cas stayed silent, letting Dean absorb the new information. Now that all the dirty laundry had been aired out between the two of them, he left the choice of his fate in Dean’s hands. 

“I don’t get it,” Dean said, looking up from the picture to stare into Cas’ eyes, “You could have anyone, seriously dude, have you seen you? Your eyes are so blue the ocean could cry, your jaw could cut glass, and you don’t just have muscle, you have abs.” Dean took a small breath. “I just don’t get it, you’ve been chasing me all this time in the shadows…why?” The last word was almost a whisper. 

“You gave me purpose,” Cas answered honestly, causing to Dean to snort in response. “

So, what? I was nice to you or whatever?” 

The laugh from Cas caught Dean by surprise. “No, quite the opposite, you were an asshole.” 

Dean grunted. “Sounds like me.” Cas could see the gears in Dean’s brain turning, he was thinking deeply before he threw his hands up in the air. “This is ridiculous, this whole mess is ridiculous.” He brought his hands down, peeking at the photo one more time before shoving it in his pocket, mind apparently made up. Cas swallowed as Dean crowded into his space, his eyes burning with a heat Cas had only dreamed of. Cas’ mouth went instantly dry as his hands clenched around the metal links in anticipation. He felt the power in the room shift, the tension between them electric. 

Dean leaned in, whispering into his ear, “Killing you would be too easy.” His fingers ghosted across Cas’ ribcage. “Torturing you proved unwise and unsatisfying.” His fingers trailed lower, thumbing circles on the hip bone. “I want to hear you beg,” Dean said, nibbling Cas’s lobe as his other hand clawed its way up Cas’s back. “You see, I like when they beg.” 

Every muscle in Cas’ body went rigid, wound tight from the overstimulation of new sensations. His breath staggered as the hand on his back scratched its way down, no doubt leaving nail marks. Cas didn’t want to close his eyes for a millisecond, afraid he’ll wake up and find that all of this was some dream. Dean moved from his ear to mouthing at his jaw, then nipping at his neck. Instinctively, he craned his neck to give Dean more access, wanting to give Dean everything and nothing all at the same time. Arms twitching against his restraints, Cas thought what a cruel, cruel game Dean was playing when he could not touch in return. If he wanted this to last, Cas needed to even the playing field. 

He clenched the metal links using his upper body strength to hoist himself up to lock his legs around Dean’s waist and pull him flush against his own body. Cas smirked as Dean yelped, his hands landing on Cas’ ass, supporting the new unexpected weight. 

Cas started a slow grind. “If you want me to beg,” he challenged, squeezing his legs tighter, “you’ll have to work for it.” Dean threw his head back, firmly squeezing the ass in his hands. The bit of friction between them felt like euphoria, each grind a symphony of angels singing their graces. Dean bit hard at Cas’ collarbone, sucking a deep hickey in the hollow. A violent moan was ripped from Cas’ mouth, the grinding picking up at a heated pace, encouraged by Dean’s strong hands. He was no doubt going to cum in his pants like a teenager. He bit down hard on his bottom lip, not wanting to give into Dean just yet. 

“Squeeze tighter,” Dean commanded, and Cas obeyed, squeezing his legs even tighter around Dean’s waist while Dean slid his hands to the button on Cas’ jeans, popping it free. The slow drag of the zipper kicked Cas’ heart into overtime, his stained boxers now on full display. Dean rolled his palm over the sensitive cock head, causing Cas’ to almost completely seize up, pleasure laying siege to his body. Confident fingers hooked into the waistband and shimmied down the boxers, and then Cas’s cock was springing free, slapping against his stomach and leaking precum. 

“Dean.” The name came out like prayer as deft fingers curled around his shaft. One pump, two pumps, Cas was almost done for. Thankfully, the hand retreated, fiddling with Dean’s confinements of clothing. Dean grunted as he hastily pushed down his own jeans and briefs before positing himself between Cas’ legs just right to line their cocks up perfectly. It became a push-pull, give-take battle with Cas grinding as Dean wrapped a hand around both them, pumping and swirling around the heads, smearing each new bead of precum down their shafts. 

Dean muttered a string of curse words into Cas’ pulse point, continuing his ministrations. “Cas,” Dean moaned, eliciting a shiver from Cas. It was rough and dirty, but Cas felt himself tipping towards the edge, his resolve weakening as every new moan left his lips. 

His arms numb, legs tingling from exertion, on the cusp of falling to his demise he managed to moan one word, “Dean,” the name a guttural sound followed by a hearty, “Please.” He could feel Dean’s smile against his throat as more please’s began tumbling out. He hadn’t planned on groveling, but Dean’s skillful hands could bring the Pope himself to sin. Dean doubled his efforts, his breath ragged and hot against Cas’ skin. 

“Dean,” Cas moaned, heat coiling in his belly. What he wasn’t expecting was Dean to fall apart first. He was beautiful, face lax and body spasming as he coated the both of them. Watching Dean, Cas delved into ecstasy, his orgasm rippling through his entire body and leaving him weightless. Dean’s hands fell on his hips as Cas let his legs fall to the floor, his forehead resting on Cas’ shoulder while they both tried to recover. Cas instantly missed Dean’s warmth as he detached himself enough to take off his shirt and wipe the both of them off. Win-win, Cas thought, eyeing the freckles that covered Dean’s chest while praising himself for begging in the end, for the view was truly worth it. Heaven or Hell, he would go to either a happy man. 

After cleaning them the best they could, Dean stepped completely out of Cas’ reach, searching for something on the table. Taking a deep breath, Cas closed his eyes, feeling at peace with having been given more than he ever imagined when he stepped through that backdoor. His choice was one he would gladly repeat. 

He opened his eyes as fingers danced across his cheek. Plush lips pressed against his. The kiss was a soft contrast to their previous activities. Cas’ brain shut down and rebooted before his eyes fluttered shut, returning the chaste kiss. It was over as fast as it was placed. Honestly, it tasted like an apology. Odd, Cas thought, before feeling a slight prick to his neck and greeting the darkness again. 

_Sometime later_

Stretching, Castiel groaned, not wanting to wake up quite yet. The mattress felt amazing, and the cozy sheets tried to lure him back to sleep as he rolled around. Blinking his eyes open to take in his surroundings, he thought to himself that he really needed to quit waking up in weird places. The bedroom he recognized instantly; a pile of clothes, including boxers, sat at the end of the bed. 

Rubbing at his sore wrists, Cas realized he was going to have to schedule a doctor's appointment for a tetanus shot. Cas sighed, enjoying a few more minutes of Dean’s memory foam mattress, before resigning himself to getting dressed. Dean’s clothes fit nearly perfect, though the jeans were a smidgen long. He was definitely not giving back any of the garments Dean provided. 

Trudging down the stairs, the smell of bacon and sound of sizzling wafted through the house. Cas stopped in the middle of the room, lost peering between where the kitchen is and the front door is. 

“You can come in here and enjoy some breakfast, or you can leave, I won’t stop you. Your choice,” Dean called out. And what a choice indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! thanks for suffering through that dumpster fire. I'd love to hear what you think. Whether you want to add what made Cas start stalking Dean (I left it ambiguous on purpose) or you want to write the next part of the story I'd love to hear it. Even if you just want to comment what color is Cas' favorite plaid shirt, I'll respond with a headcannon. I think the best stories are the ones you can leave a little bit of yourself in. So please feel free to add to this in the comments.
> 
> XOXO, Alice


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